


Cold Pressing AU: The Well of Gold - Harvest Home

by Alex_Quine



Series: Cold Pressing AU [10]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir, struggling with the knowledge of a past barely understood and a future equally shadowed, finds himself once more journeying to the field to receive the true harvest of the Well of Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

Boromir had been distracted, unable to rest. Long after Faramir had been pronounced fit to return home and the citadel had forgotten the silent figure of the falconer who’d stood behind the Lord Steward’s chair for a brief period, he had seemed unsettled. Immersing himself ever deeper in the business of Gondor, he had driven servants and courtiers alike at a furious pace; no sergeant-at-arms facing an inspection of the men by his commander-in-chief could have been more exacting.

Aragorn watched without comment the maelstrom about him until he saw his Steward, having swept the citadel’s offices clean and turned the palace cohorts inside out to shake the dust from them, begin to search about him for some other task to fill his waking hours and likely haunt his sleeping too.

So it was that this night Aragorn did not tread the empty stone stairs down to the private gate that would let him go to his love. This night he waited in his own apartments, sat in the shadows thrown by the draperies at the window. The long days were heated and night brought little relief to those who slept in the lower levels, but in the citadel a faint breeze stirred the curtains. 

Aragorn pulled the stuff back to let more of the moonlight into the room, creeping across the floor. This moon was reddened by heat. The next one would be silvered, a white light to aid the harvesters at their work. Boromir would go to the field again, to see the first harvest gathered in and Aragorn would have him easy in his mind, ready to face whatever might befall him. Then there were things unsaid between them, Aragorn suspected in part because Boromir could not find words to express what troubled him and so he had waited for Boromir to speak, but now he could no longer see him struggle alone.

The soft-footed servant who had delivered his summons to the Lord Steward’s house had carried with it a soft leather pouch wrapped in blue silk. Within lay the Harad bracelets. They had not left his keeping from the moment that Boromir clasped them about his wrists and ankles and knelt to his warrior lover, but had dwelt safe in Aragorn’s possession.

Boromir stood, transfixed, after the servant had gone, turning the plain white gold bands over and over, letting the metal’s clink be the only sound that echoed over the blood beating in his head. He could feel the heat from his hands seeping into the bracelets, feel too the sweat begin to come on his palms. This was a command and also a choice freely given. All at once, a desire to sleep, cleansed, to set aside his doubts for a while, came over him.

He had placed the bracelets a-top their blue silk, where he could see them, as he took up a dark cloak and closed the clasp about his throat. It was all the preparation he would make, the rest was for his King to decide.

At the narrow gate, the servant was waiting to let him pass. The man handed him a shuttered lantern and sank back into the shadows, leaving Boromir alone. These were the stone flags of his childhood wanderings and he could have found his way blind and running to the King’s chambers, but some prompting made him walk slowly, lantern held low against an uneven floor and the silk bundle clutched in his other hand, hidden beneath the cloak.

He nodded briefly to the guards before the King’s door as he passed them and at the end of the corridor turned off to climb a narrow stair to his study that, with a knock to an unobtrusive stone, slid away to reveal steps leading down and into solid rock. To the listening guards his footsteps had not faltered, even as they receded into the distance, but his hand hung fractionally in mid-air before drawing aside the tapestry and stepping into the familiar room, emerging from a niche beside the great chimneybreast.

He could see the outline of the man sat by the open window. A faint breeze was stirring the draperies but doing little to dissipate the heat that seemed to crawl over his skin and pool at the base of his throat. As he walked forward, the figure rose to meet him in the middle of the room. 

The ritual had evolved out of a shared desire to speak in a few words of what each sought from the other and in a form that re-affirmed their bond. From beneath his cloak Boromir brought out the bracelets in their silken shroud and offered them, cradled in both hands, palm up, watching silently as Aragorn’s hand stretched out to take up one circlet, which he clasped about his own wrist. Boromir’s gaze did not leave Aragorn’s face as he quietly took up the second bracelet and encircled the other wrist with the graceful curve of metal. This was the moment when either might set them on a chosen path. More often than not they came to it full in the knowledge of where they were bound, but this time…

Boromir stood as though planted in the spot. His King’s eyes offered naught but acceptance. And Boromir made his choice. Picking up one of the bracelets, he said gruffly, “I would see you dressed as a warrior.” And he added softly, “May I dress you, captain?”

“You truly wish this?”

“Yes, captain.”

Aragorn’s inclined his head, but before Boromir went to kneel before him, Aragorn took from him the last of the circlets, holding it against his breast.  

The loose robe was open at the front, pooling on the floor and as he knelt Boromir caught the faint, warm, spice smell of Aragorn’s skin. Boromir felt soiled by the day, stifled, weighed down by his heavy clothing and suddenly it seemed all that he could do to bend and clasp the bracelet about one ankle. From above him came a faint sigh and then his captain’s voice in firm command.

“Finish the task.”

The final bracelet appeared before his downcast eyes, held in Aragorn’s fingertips, and as he bent to complete the circle, Boromir began to feel some small measure of burden lift from his shoulders.

His captain had him strip off every piece of clothing where he stood and then led him through to wash away the grime. Oft-times Aragorn would wish to watch him bathe, but now the captain had Boromir stand in a shallow pool, whilst he washed Boromir himself, fetching hot water to mix with a lotion of soapwort, taking a soft cloth to the skin about his chest and groin, and a bristled brush to his legs and back. 

Boromir stood as still as he might, endeavouring to let his tumultuous breathing slow. His eyes were cast down, which allowed him an excellent view of the silk train of his captain’s gown first floating on the top of the water and rapidly darkening and sinking. He also saw, did not seek to avoid, his cock, half-hard, balls swinging freely, as he worked about him, stripping Boromir of every outward mark of his life of toil.

The hands were gentle when need be, long fingers sliding into his cleft to clean him there and vigorous too, raising the blood to the skin on his back, until all of him was caught up in the sensation and heat began to pool in his groin.   Handfuls of coarse sand were used to massage elbows and heels and then the soapwort lotion and brush scoured him further. It was as though his captain would remove every vestige of hard skin about his body. At the last he tipped pitchers of icy water over him and, ignoring the gasps from the figure in the pool, he told Boromir to dry himself with the cloths set ready.

As Boromir stepped from the water, eyes still cast down, he could see the soaked hem of the silk gown dragging across the floor and then the whole garment was discarded in a sodden heap. He began to towel off the moisture, but before he could finish he was ordered to lay face down on a bench, the clever hands returned with a flagon of almond oil and he was being stroked, pummelled and soothed, his skin glistening.

Turned by his captain onto his back, with orders to watch him work, Boromir saw his cock hardening, flattening against his stomach as the oiled fingers worked their way up his legs and then swept over his groin. Now he itched to have his captain take him fully in hand and barely suppressed a low growl as a broad thumb teased at the slit. When his eyes flickered shut momentarily, the hands lifted from his skin abruptly leaving him bereft. He opened his eyes and focused on the hard planes of his captain’s face. Boromir drew in a breath and muttered,

“Your pardon, captain,” but a curt rejoinder brought him back to full attention. 

“Kneel up.”

The captain retreated to a chair set by the pool, stretching out long legs and began, lazily, to stroke himself to full hardness. He pointed to a dry spot on the floor before him and without another word Boromir arose, came to him and knelt once more.

“You will prepare yourself,” he told Boromir, “but do not,” he added firmly, “seek for pleasure in it.”

That injunction alone was enough to make Boromir begin to ache and the oil that he let drip from his fingers, reaching back to his cleft, trickled down slowly to make his entrance pulse beneath his first touches. Boromir’s back arched as he slowly opened himself, breath coming short as the thrum of blood became a hunger. The stone floor beneath his knees was unforgiving, but just as a shudder rippling through his frame threatened to overset him, strong arms steadied him and for a moment he lay back panting.

“Good man,” whispered in his ear and now hands pushed his shoulders down almost to the floor, his cheek laid flat against cold marble.

On the ramparts of Minas Tirith, there were dogs howling at the blood moon and the echoing sound swallowed up the muttered curses and groans as the captain claimed his own.

Boromir let a soft moan catch in his throat as a broad tongue laved at his sweat-streaked back and lower and lower, lapping up the musky seed trickling from his hole. He had endured pain and grinding ecstasy that would have made him howl with the dogs, except that he awaited his captain’s pleasure to allow him release. Now he was iron-hard, dripping on the marble floor that offered no sort of friction, even if it was allowed. 

And the captain knew well what such restraint cost him, had brought him to the edge often, only to let the ache gradually subside and begin to pleasure him again. He knew that this was a carefully measured training set against the healer’s injunction not to try his skills too far. Celond had, one afternoon, calmly laid out the advisable limits, which did not encompass bindings of any kind, so he had learnt restraint and to temper his desires and Aragorn had learnt the power of seeming to control when only serving.

Behind him he could hear his captain in the pool, could hear the rush of water poured over him and a few drops spattered the soles of his feet. Bathed and dry once more, the captain came to lift him to his feet, gently supporting him, letting him bite into the muscle at his breast as the feeling returned to Boromir’s legs once again and he hid his face in his captain’s neck. 

No light weight, he was lifted and carried into the other chamber and laid on his side on the bed. Not even this agony could wilt his cock entirely, but cradled in his captain’s arms, held until his breathing softened, he felt himself settle on a plateau from where he could travel to any place. And when he felt long fingers take him in hand, as a resurgent blunt head nudged at his entrance, Boromir simply bent his top knee to ease the captain’s way and sank back to engulf his heat into his body.

They moved in slow glides and at the bottom of the movement in gentle rocking, savouring the smallest sparks of light behind closed eyes. His captain laid down soft kisses the length of his bowed neck and when once again the feeling began to build, to make Boromir moan and whine and catch his breath, his lover did not speed up his movements but made each flex of fingers and press of cock carry more weight until the steady leak of pre-cum over his hand became shuddering gouts, spurting forth, making the body in his arms tremble.

Boromir was barely conscious as he was cleaned of sweat and seed, but dragged himself upright at his captain’s command to eat a little from his hand and to drink some warm, sweet wine. Then he was enfolded once again in his embrace and slept, more soundly than for many weeks.

In the grey before dawn, he slipped from the bed to visit the garderobe, and wash his hands and face. Stepping softly up to the bed, he gazed at the sleeping face of his captain and leant down to press his lips gently to his forehead. Sleep-shadowed eyes struggled to focus on him.

“May I undress you now, captain?”

“You may.”

He could barely hear the whispered reply but carefully removed the bracelets and set them beside the bed, before climbing back beneath the coverlet and turning to let Aragorn curve around his back again and drape an arm across his stomach as he sank into sleep.

As rosy light crept across the stone floor and from the levels below the sounds of the city awakening floated upwards, they sat and talked, Boromir hesitant at first. 

He was troubled by the unknown path that seemed to be unfurling ahead of him. He understood that he had some connection to those who had made the field, or perhaps those who had served the land. He cherished his exchanges with Meneldor, to fly was a marvel and to hear Meneldor speak took the breath from him, but he baulked at claiming or using some power over the Great Eagles and wondered whether, if he broke the staff, the charm would be broken and they would be free?

As Aragorn listened quietly, Boromir grew bolder. He was not so naïve, he said, as to imagine that his brother’s tale, of the man who wielded a whip of fire, had no bearing on his future and by extension on Arin’s future, their son’s future. There was something awakening in the land, in him, men and creatures saw it at work and those who might guide him, teach him how to do good with such power, were going from Middle Earth. How could he be sure that he would not be corrupted by such magic? That he would not be twisted into something evil?

Aragorn did not try to belittle his fears, but as the palace awoke around them, he recounted his first days and weeks as King and told Boromir of how the palantir had been recovered from Denethor’s pyre and what he had sought in its depths. He spoke also of Elrond and Gandalf, encouraging him to find his own way to use the old devices for a new age. He had come to believe that goodwill was the most potent force; men might stumble, but could be raised up again.

 “And that stumble, is saved by another’s arm and that is what it is to live, to strive – men and elves, dwarf and hobbit.”

Boromir sank back in his arms and Aragorn felt the tension go from his body.

“You will go to the field?” Aragorn asked.

Boromir lifted the hand lying, fingers curled, on his chest and kissed each fingertip before laying his cheek against the palm.

“Ay,” he said, “I’ll go to the Well - bring the harvest home. Although,” he added ruefully, “I’ll not wager that corn will be the only getting on that ground.”

 

And for once, the morning bells went unheeded and Elessar and his Lord Steward slept on, undisturbed by aught.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the days before Boromir went to bring in the harvest in on the Well of Gold, he spent long hours in an unaccustomed haunt. In truth he was taking up the search through dust-covered records of their family, where Faramir’s mining of jumbled parchments and crumbling scrolls had ended. The archivist had hidden his surprise as best he could at the Lord Steward’s presence in his cramped quarters but his jaw had fairly dropped the afternoon that Boromir, sliding from his perch on a high stool and rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness from them, had casually announced that something must be done about housing the archive in more suitable surroundings and perhaps finding him an apprentice and he would send someone to talk with him about his requirements.

“Some sunlight and fresh air might be good, eh?” said Boromir, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder.

The man had almost to blink away tears as he nodded, but found enough voice to add shakily, “Not too much light, my lord…remember the blue,” and he held out to Boromir, the leaf he was working on. 

The parchment had been torn and the lettering was rubbed and worn, so that the archivist’s painstaking transcription of those passages still legible came none too soon, but in one corner of the sheet a letter, an “E”, was writ large, its arms entwined about with delicate traceries of blue flowers and gilded fruits hanging from a vine. The colours were still brilliant and Boromir understood that it was only its long sojourn in the dark that had preserved its fragile beauty.

“Aye,” he said grinning, “we’ll remember the blue.”

He reported his findings each evening to Arin, or to the King if he joined them for supper. There were dry accounts of trade negotiations, martial tales hidden in lists of companies raised from the estates, laments for men lost, love letters (if the formal agreements between noble houses in respect of a marriage could be considered as such), occasional fragments of very bad poetry, even inventories of linen, from which Boromir deduced their forbears had supported a mighty household which he was very glad, he said, reaching for a piece of the cheese, he did not have to feed.

Aragorn smiled and directed Arin to pick a skein of cobweb from his father’s hair. Once the boy had retired to bed, the men went down into the garden and sat over wine, enjoying the cool of the evening. Aragorn’s pipe kept the biting insects away, whilst Boromir relayed any scrap of further information he had been able to unearth about the man with the whip of fire. It was little enough; few writings went so far back and he struggled to read script his brother would have deciphered without difficulty, but he had found brief mention of the raid on Umbar in a list of ships’ provisions.

Aragorn leant forward and let the tips of his finger run through the flowers of a lavender bush beside him.

“I am minded,” he said, “to take ship along the coast. Eldarion has never been on board a ship and it will be cooler on the water. We could go down to see what kind of ruin of an estate I gifted you.”

“Yes!” Boromir’s eyes sparkled. “If Arin came with us, he could return to Minas Tirith by sea and I can ride northward to the harvest.”

His voice softened.

“Will the Queen sail with us?”

Aragorn lifted his fingers to his nose and breathed deeply, drawing in the scent.

“No,” he said quietly, “she clambers around rock pools with our son, sits to converse with the puffins drawn from their burrows, but to sail upon the salt sea…it cuts too deep.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Eowyn was at an upper window looking out onto the wide grass plot, when she saw him, the falconer, standing at the edge of the lawn, looking towards the great house. For a moment it was as though all the breath had been knocked from her. A movement below caught her eye and glancing down she saw Faramir, emerging from the house and beginning to walk slowly towards him. She pressed her palms flat against the glass and would have cried out, but no sound came…and then she was running, along corridors and down staircases, her skirts bunched up in her fists.

The Prince’s elderly secretary was hovering uncertainly in the doorway. His anxious cry of “Madam, I could not stop…” was lost to her as she burst out into the sunlight. The stifling heat of midday met her like a fog, enveloping her. Even as her steps slowed, with skirts shaken free, to a more decorous pace, she could feel the sunlight burning on the soft skin at the nape of her neck, but her eyes were fixed on the figures ahead of her.

The boy stood like a statue and on his wrist sat a hooded hawk. She had caught up with Faramir as he stopped a few feet from the lad and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

Carefully the falconer unwrapped the jesses from about his glove. The hawk stamped once and tiny silver bells sounded at her feet. 

“She is a gift, Prince.” The boy reached into his pouch with the other hand and brought out a small whistle on a chain. “She’s finished; a good hawk. She’ll bring meat to your table.”

Faramir stretched out a hand and took the proffered whistle. He swung it by the thin chain, but once the lad had unfastened the hood, as the hawk tilted her head to look at him, he blew one sharp blast and the falconer swung his arm upwards, casting her into the air.

The little bird soared upwards, circling high above them. Without taking his eyes from the hawk, Faramir stretched out a hand and the falconer hastened to strip off his glove and give it to him. After watching her swoop and tumble for a few moments, Faramir blew on the whistle again. The falconer brought out a scrap of meat from his pouch and laid it on the glove, seconds before the bird landed, talons digging in to the heavy leather. Faramir let her eat as he caught up the jesses and secured them, saying quietly,

“It is too hot to hunt.”

He held out a hand and the lad passed him the hood, which Faramir fitted and tied one-handed. He let his fingers drift down the bird’s feathered breast before looking into the lad’s face and asking,

“Is this one of the hawks you took from my brother?”

Eowyn could see no trace of embarrassment in the boy’s demeanour. He smiled easily at Faramir, replying,

“The Lord _brahmir_ planned to gift her to you. His trainers would have spoiled her.” But he thought for a moment and then added more slowly,

“They have one way of working which may do well with Gondor’s birds, but this is a hobbelin from Khand. My ways suit her better.”

“And where is the second hawk?” asked Faramir.

“He is for the _brahmir_. He is safe.”

For the first time, Eowyn thought some shadow passed over the boy’s face and his next question was almost hesitant.

“Where is the Lord Steward, sir? I heard he had taken ship, but I could not find out more safely. I must find the _brahmir._ ”

Faramir’s grip might have tightened imperceptibly because the hawk became restless and for a moment his attention was all on settling her again. When at last he looked at the boy, his tone was quiet, but searching for all that.

“As you found me?”

There was a flush of blood to the falconer’s cheek.

“It was a foul thing…I would have paid for it…it is our way.” 

He hesitated and added,

“If the _bramhir_ wishes I will pay for it still.”

“Enough!”

Eowyn laid her hand on Faramir’s arm, just above the glove. The hooded hawk turned its head towards her and a silver bell trembled.

“Enough,” she said, “It is time this was laid to rest.”

Faramir looked to her and nodded before turning back to the youth. 

“You will find my brother on his estates to the south. He will see the harvest home there.”

At this, the boy’s face lightened, he pressed one hand to his chest, and bowed his head.

“Do you need food?” Faramir asked gently, “Lord Boromir was wroth when you left his service without provisions for your journey.”

The lad stammered out his thanks, but he was set fair and with a careful bow to the lady he was gone, running across the grass to where the bay horse stood waiting and Faramir thought he caught the echo of a joyous shout floating back towards them through the humid air.

As they turned to go, the hawk carried on Faramir’s fist, he glanced across at Eowyn.

“I did not ask him the question, Eowyn,” Faramir said quietly, “I did not ask him why he did the deed.”

“For all that, he gave you an answer, love,” she replied, running the tip of a finger down the glossy plumage of the hawk’s breast.

Faramir halted and turned to face her. Eowyn reached out to cup his cheek in her hand and when he leant in to it, she kissed him, a gentle press of lips, before tucking his free hand about her waist and resuming their stroll, saying,

“He would pay with his heart’s blood. I have seen such young men go out to fight and you have too – he was lied to.”

 ………………………………………………………………………………………….

After supervising the unloading of the horses, they had left the boys in the charge of a capable guardsman and one of Eldarion’s younger nurses, happily building castles of sand on the beach and then digging complicated rings of water-filled ditches about their citadels. Boromir thought that the young prince showed something of an engineer’s eye for siege earthworks. Elessar smiled with a degree of pride but also knew that there would be anger and then frustration and tears once his son realised that the incoming tide could not be stopped and would eventually overwhelm anything he might build.

Boromir would not have the children about the shattered walls of the estate’s main house to tumble into any half-collapsed wells or hidden cellars that might lie beneath the jumbled stone and clay bricks, weathered almost to a thick red dust that clung to their boots.

They had walked the bounds of the ruined holding and were standing in the remnants of the walled garden, looking about at a wilderness of tangled brush. Once there had been no-one left to care for the plots, to fetch water or tend to the water courses, raised beds had become scorched and any tender plants had long since been replaced by those few weeds hardy enough to flourish  One or two old trees, whose roots ran deep, had survived and Boromir had even been able to stretch up and pluck down a small fruit, glowing ruby and gold, and present it to Aragorn. It looked and smelt much like one of the peaches from the trees trained in fans against the white walls of Minas Tirith, but its skin was smooth. When Aragorn cut into it and they shared the flesh, sweet spicy juice dripped over their fingers, leaving sticky patches that must be licked off.

“Do we know where the folk went?” Boromir asked, as Aragorn reached up to pluck more of the fruits and tuck them into the breast of his tunic.

“The place was already an empty ruin when our troops came through here after Pelennor Fields,” he replied ruefully, “and I don’t suppose their presence helped.”

“To a guardsman, firewood is firewood, love.” Boromir bent his head to draw in the scent of a straggling honeysuckle that had wound itself about the old trunk

Aragorn stepped further beneath the shade of the leaf canopy, and looked across the garden to the range of outbuildings that still retained their tiled roofs.

“We think this was a place favoured by the captains of the Haradrim,” he said, “built for their leisure, with that sheltered harbour, good fishing and all the delicacies that forced labour can raise in a desert…but now, I begin to wonder if I have not gifted you a burnt wilderness?”

Boromir felt his skin begin to crawl, probably the heat, and rubbed the heel of his hand over his neck, but this was more annoyance than discomfort. The place seemed to him to be dozing in the heat, with the drone of insects lulling it to sleep.

“If we can find fresh water down deep, it’ll do well enough,” he said firmly. “I have a mind to try some of the spice vines, maybe nutmeg trees.”

“You’ll be lucky indeed to find any in Khand who will let you have saplings,” said Aragorn wryly, “they guard their spices like gold,” and his heart leapt when Boromir turned to him with that wide grin, eyes sparkling, that meant his man had a plan afoot.

“We’ll try, love, we’ll try,” said Boromir cheerfully, patting the breast of Aragorn’s tunic where it bulged with fruit, “and now, if you’ve finished raiding my trees for our sons’ benefit, there’s cool wine awaiting us onboard ship and I’d as leif be out of this midday heat.”

They had spent two nights anchored in the little bay and whilst the children adventured about the beach, the men had taken a small escort and ridden through the countryside, but had met nary a soul. Everywhere were the charred remains of villages. The sour smoke of war had long since faded and it was hard say whether the places had been fired by an enemy or set alight by the inhabitants as they fled. The ground looked parched and when a light breeze sprang up Aragorn could see a film of dust rising off the neglected fields.

Boromir had included in the party an elderly man, retired from Imrahil’s service. Simon had been tracked down to an inn on the second level of the city where idleness, enforced on one ill-suited to it, fretted at him. The man had a skill with maps and his anxious daughters had been only too pleased to pack him off on a jaunt in the Lord Steward’s employ. Just now, Simon was squinting at the layout of another burnt-out shell from under the wide brim of a straw hat, as he drew on one of a series of wax tablets that hung from a chain at his waist. He’d spurned Boromir’s offer of a horse, and had brought his own, equally aged, mule, which went quietly along at its own pace, allowing its master to take notes as they travelled. Each evening he would transfer what he had learned on to the parchment maps.

“Will you rebuild here, my lord?” Simon asked.

Boromir leant on the pommel of his saddle and gazed about him.

“I doubt it…what think you?”

The old man nodded slowly.

“This is a fragile land, my lord, and they drove it hard. It might come good again in time, but now it is tired.”

Aragorn tilted his head.

“How can we help it along?” he asked.

The mule halted and dipped its head with a snort as Simon gathered up the wax tablets and peered at them. He picked out one and tapped on it for emphasis.

“We should plant up the dust, great king, with all the old plants, that men call weeds but that call this home and love the sun on their leaves; fix the earth so that it is not torn away by the wind and then let the game return. The house and gardens by the shore are cool enough to work and like as not you will find water once the wells are dug out again, but for the rest of the land, to my mind it has earned its rest.”

As Simon spoke Aragorn nodded in agreement and turned to Boromir. His love was listening certainly, but Boromir’s gaze had been drawn to the horizon and to where a hawk was fluttering, keeping station against the breeze. As Simon’s voice faded away, the bird swooped after some small creature and was lost from sight. Boromir smiled and turned back to the men.

“Aye,” he said, “we’ll think on that,” and with a chirrup to his mount, he led them on.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

If the house by the sea was a silent ruin, he had already put much work into the orchard estate to bring it back into production, to make its granaries sing with the sound of flails again. Therefore, it was with a certain quiet satisfaction that Boromir rode into the crowded yard of the manor and dismounted, stamping the red dust of the south from his boots almost before the household had realised that their lord and master was there. All was a bustle of activity, with teams to be unhitched and carts unloaded, and there was no ceremony to his welcome beyond a respectful curtsey from Mistress Mariam who had appeared in the doorway, a maid bearing a flagon and a cup at her shoulder.

Boromir took a deep swallow of the cool ale and let it cut the dust on his tongue.

“Have they started on the Well yet?” he asked, wiping his top lip with his thumb.

“No Master, they were waiting for the grain to rustle in the ear and we’ve had a wet month of it…but these last few days have been fine and the men started on the driest fields first.”

Boromir nodded his understanding as he lifted down his saddlebags and turned the horse over to a waiting groom. The Well of Gold swept down almost to the river and the lower reaches would take longer to dry out.

Mariam had taken his bags and gone back into the hall to oversee the last preparations for the supper. There were field workers here from half a dozen estates, all needing fed and fed well, and she marshalled her kitchen staff as skilfully as any commander in the field. 

Boromir stood in the porch of the great hall and watched the lines of folk returning, noting the weary bend to their shoulders. They were using every moment of daylight to work the harvest and if bad weather threatened, they would work through the night, each accompanied by a child holding a lantern…but for now fortune smiled on them and they could leave the fields at dusk. In the yard they queued to hand over sickles and pitchforks to the whet-man, who would work the treadle of the whetstone into the small hours, sharpening tools for the morrow.

Boromir had been provided with water to wash and a hot meal, taken in the privacy of the solar, before the Estate Steward had returned, just as the lamps were being lit. Hirrald walked alongside a heavily-laden wagon, talking earnestly to the driver and as he caught sight of Boromir, stood once more in the doorway, he called out to the men to roll it straight into the big barn before they began to unload. 

“My Lord,” he said, ducking his head as Boromir waved him forward, “you are most welcome, sir.” 

Boromir could see the glow in the man’s eyes as Hirrald gave him a brief report on their progress to date. This was Hirrald’s field of battle, to see the food for the coming winter and the seed corn for the next year in safe, despite all the obstacles that could be thrown in his path. Too much of his year was spent in waiting and Boromir thought that behind the careful steward, who organised and calculated all for the best outcome, lay a fighter who relished the challenge.

“We’ll start on the Well of Gold tomorrow, sir,” said Hirrald, a broad grin splitting his face.

“It’s dry enough?” Boromir asked anxiously.

“I walked the lower end this forenoon and,” he hesitated a moment and Boromir thought he heard a catch in the steward’s tired voice, “it is well named, my lord, the grain grows thick and full.”

“Come in, man,” said Boromir, leading the way in to the crowded hall, “the Mistress has food and ale waiting.”

There had been little in the way of idle chat at the end of the meal. As soon as the maids had cleared the long tables, the trestles had been dismantled, bales of blankets pulled from beneath the dais at the far end and the hall turned into a dormitory, where a few oil lamps left burning showed the lines of prone bodies. The company would be up well before dawn to break their fast and still be on the fields at first light.

Boromir had retired to the solar as soon as Hirrald had supped. There was more than enough to do about the hall, but Mariam had still sent two of his escort up the stair with a tub and cans of hot water. There were towels warming before the fire and oils waiting to be worked over his damp skin in flasks set in the hot ashes. Boromir lay, submerged in the tub, letting the heat leach the ache of travel from his bones. His head swam from the familiar scents of juniper and water mint and he closed his eyes before ducking momentarily beneath the surface.   As he rose again, shaking the water from his hair, he thought of Arin playing with Eldarion on the red sands. I must teach the boy to swim, he thought.

Laying quiet in the dark before daybreak, Boromir heard the first movements below in the sound of muffled voices. He would make no move to dress and greet the first of the hands to set out, but would leave them to get about their business without the distraction of the master’s presence.  Hirrald had told him where they were bound, to some of the furthest flung holdings, and Boromir would ride out later to see the results of their labours.

When finally he descended into the hall, Boromir found the place almost empty. Once all the field workers were gone from the hall, Mariam would have her maids set up the tables in readiness for their return, but now no more than a handful of men were gathered about a brazier, bowls in hand. The first meal of the day was a warm porridge, taken with salt or honey to the man’s taste and eaten standing. Later grooms would carry food and drink out to the fields.

These were the workers tasked with cutting on the Well of Gold and Boromir recognised one or two of the faces from earlier visits…all experienced men. Yet, despite their many years of work on the land, he could feel an air about the group that put him in mind of soldiery, about to go out on patrol. At Hirrald’s arrival in the hall, there had been a palpable easing of mood as the steward joked with this man and that, all the while keeping up a conversation with his lieutenants, checking on the details of the day’s events.

As the men trooped from the hall, Boromir was finishing the last of his meal. Mariam came to his side with his cloak over her arm. Boromir exchanged it for his empty bowl and shrugged it on. He was fixing the silver clasps at his throat when Hirrald, clearing his throat, set the old staff before him.

“’It is right, sir,” he said firmly, “the Steward’s Staff in your hand when you go to that place.”

Boromir took in a breath and held out his hand for it. It felt cold beneath his touch, but his grasp fitted about the knarled wood and when he rapped the iron tip on the ground he thought he felt a kind of movement beneath his feet. All at once Boromir yearned to be in the open air and he strode from the hall, the rest of the party trailing after him.

The world was still cold and grey as they trudged up the steep lane towards the top of the field. As he passed it seemed to Boromir that more and more of his people appeared out of the gloom and fell in behind him and yet more waited at the entrance to the Well. There were not so many children as had run about on that morning when he’d brought Arin to the ploughing, but the girl child who had ridden the plough with him and who had brought Boromir the eagle feather, was waiting for him now by the ring stone, a small sickle in her hand.

When Boromir walked onto the field the sun was creeping over the land and although there was light enough to begin now, the company waited and seemed to hold their breath. A hard lump was forming in Boromir’s throat as the oncoming sun turned the field into gold. He had never seen grain so thick, so straight. A gentle breeze had set the crop to rippling as though something great thing breathed across a pool and he could hear it!  Stood beside the ring stone, there was a sighing and a rustling in the corn that flickered about the edges of his hearing, whispered voices from the earth.

Hirrald led the girl forward, who handed Boromir the sickle, saying,

“Will you cut the first ears, master?”

“I will,” Boromir replied solemnly and he gave her his staff to hold, before stepping forward to the edge of the crop.

“My thanks,” he muttered, almost to himself, and swung the blade.

An arc of grain fell at his feet and to cheers and applause the girl darted forward, thrust the staff unceremoniously back into his hand and began to gather up the stalks until she had a double handful.

From the lane the men with scythes were trooping onto the field spreading out along the top edge, each with his gleaners behind him and as Hirrald retrieved the sickle from Boromir’s grasp, smiling broadly and ushering him out of the way, they began to sweep the blades before them. From somewhere the sound of a pipe and drum began a cheerful air with a steady beat and Boromir could see in the distance the girl child scurrying down the lane carrying the precious first cut.

It had taken most of the morning to harvest the Well of Gold. Hirrald had sent back to the manor twice for extra hands and as the sheaves were stacked on a line of carts, he turned to Boromir to say unsteadily that perhaps they had needs put up another barn next year? Boromir had smiled, but said little. The sun was full in the sky now, blazing down on the workers and he had long since shed cloak and jerkin, but heat alone could not explain the fluttering feeling in his stomach, the tightness in his chest. He did not think that the field grieved for its corn, the ears were full to bursting and it was time for them to be cut, but still there was some thing…

And then as the last of the grain was lifted, and the sweating piper paused for breath, Boromir saw the tall form of Mariam at the field edge, one arm about the girl. The child had a circlet in her hands, of twisted corn stalks threaded with field poppies and cornflowers and as the women reached where he stood with Hirrald, Boromir knew without being told that this was the reward for the gift of his seed and he knelt so that the child might set the coronet on his head.

There was laughter and clapping and when Boromir stood he felt the prick of tears, roughly tamped down as he grinned at Hirrald and bade him take all back to the manor for the midday meal. He would follow. He had words to speak to this place. 

Folk were trooping from the field; one laughing man had taken the girl child on his shoulders, when the crowd parted about a figure stood at the top of the lane. The boy was taller, Boromir thought and a little of him was surprised that he felt neither amazement nor anger at the appearance of the falconer. The bay horse stood quietly in the lane and Boromir could see a hooded hawk perched on the pommel of the saddle.

The boy stared at him, waiting for his summons, but when Boromir beckoned him forward the lad’s step seemed a little unsure, as though the earth shifted beneath his tread. At last he stood before Boromir and when his _bramhir_ did not speak, Corran raised his gaze to meet the Lord Steward’s and Boromir saw the blood driven from his cheek, the fright in his eyes.

“Lord _Bramhir_ ,” he began, so low that Boromir had to strain to hear him, “I am come to ask you…” his speech stumbled over the words and he began again.

“I come to beg of you…”

Boromir was gripping the staff tightly and now, from so deep within him he could not guess its wellspring, came a cold flame of rage rising to choke him with bitterness. He drew himself up and would have pinned the boy to the ground with a look.

If Boromir had thought what a figure he presented, planted foursquare beside the ring stone, staff in hand, the gathering storm on his brow in contrast with the bright plenty of the crown, he might have paused.   As it was the lad was struck dumb and could no longer hold Boromir’s gaze. Instead his head turned away and down to the ring stone, where Boromir’s hand was pressed against the surface, fingers splayed.

“What is it you would ‘beg’ of me? Speak now!”

Even Boromir was startled by the roar that echoed about the empty field, so that the very earth seemed to shiver. 

In the silence afterwards Boromir began to be aware of a quiet mewling, choked off as though a wounded creature would hide its weakness, and then there was no hiding; the boy’s shoulders began to shake and he fell to his knees sobbing. Through all the pain of past events, Boromir had not seen Corran weep, but now Boromir thought he had never heard such agony in a voice, as if the grief of ages was being torn up by the roots to pour from the boy’s mouth. Yet all the time he was gasping, doubled over, trying to stifle the sound.

Startled and now guilt-stricken, Boromir would have reached down to touch the lad on his shoulder, but the boy flinched away and before Boromir could stop him, he was tearing at his clothing.

The body exposed as he pulled the rough shirt over his head was still a child’s, thought Boromir, the skin where the sun had not caught at it, pale and freckled. Keening, the boy threw himself to the ground and then Boromir saw, saw with a clarity that would have felled him, but that the staff held him upright, the marks of the brands on the child’s back. Celond had told them but it had meant nothing, they were old injuries when new hurts seemed of more significance.

Beneath his gaze there lay the pattern of rings that cradled his fingertips on the altar stone, branded into the flesh of a child. He could have reached out and fitted his hand to the boy’s back and covered every scar with his skin.

“He marks his own with a whip of fire,” Boromir whispered and sank to his knees, giddy with knowledge. Then he reached out to lay his hand over the damaged body and as the child shook beneath his touch, Boromir closed his eyes against the terrible sight and choked out, “Hush boy…no sorrow, no more…you are come home.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Aragorn would have travelled with him to greet the return of his people to the care of the Steward of Gondor, but Boromir asked to do this alone and it was only on his return that Aragorn had heard of the ragged caravan that held the remnants of a lost tribe. 

There were barely a score left, old people, a few women of child-bearing age, and little ones, but not a grown man had survived. Sauron’s wars, disease and hunger had taken many and Dorran was left the eldest male and leader of a people trapped by a cruel legacy. The old women kept the histories in their heads and to their _bramhir_ they told the tale of sorrow.

The curse laid on their heads so long ago had become their value to the Corsairs who claimed from the tribe as payment for their continued protection, a tribute. Each generation would produce a thing of horror, a child assassin, who would hunt one of the Corsair’s choosing and then, for the tribe could not suffer such a burden of shame, be killed in its turn. A child could venture where the Corsair’s enemies would never think to throw up a shield, but failure meant a threat to the safety of the whole tribe. And through it all they had carried with them the story of their powerful master, loved and feared, who flew with the eagles and whose gaze never left them.

Aragorn thought it likely that somewhere the Dark Lord’s eye had become entangled in the legend. Boromir shook his head at that and after a moment’s reflection went on with the tale. When peace came to Middle Earth they began to hear more news from Gondor, even in Umbar and the story of the return of the Lord _bramhir_ from the dead and of how he had ‘ousted’ his brother from the place of King’s Steward, had been filtered through the mouths of traders. 

But now their place amongst the remnants of the Corsairs was even more uncertain. To those who burned with shame for Umbar’s defeat, they were living reminders of power that she no longer possessed and to those who sought to sugar Umbar’s history with a view to increased trade, their very existence should be denied at every turn. Friendless, they had become easy prey. Their small possessions had been plundered, their surviving men killed in ambush. Some of the shrinking band had thought of a return to Gondor, but all remembered the end of the curse. 

Into this unhappy house had come Harad traders with a grave tale to tell. They had heard that in Gondor the younger of the brothers, maddened with jealousy, meant to kill the Lord Steward. The Harad said they feared the resulting turmoil in Gondor would harm their trade and they had need of an assassin to eliminate the threat to peace. Aragorn exchanged a grim smile with Boromir at this. Harad meant to be a thorn in Gondor’s side for some time yet and they must expect more plots in the future.

The Haradrim had offered gold, enough to feed all through another winter, but had that not been there to sweeten the deal, the Lord Steward was their _bramhir_ and this one even carried the marks of the whip on his face and so Corran had embarked on his doomed quest. When all had gone awry he found himself confronted by a world that confounded what he thought he knew about the _bramhir_ and his brother.

He had returned to Umbar to persuade the others to escape to Gondor with him. The news of his failure had gone ahead and he had found the remnants of the family driven into hiding near the border, but none dared venture further without he had Boromir’s express agreement…and so he had set out again to find his lord and had come all unknowing to the land whose mark he carried.

Boromir had sent the boy south again, with an escort to assure the safety of the refugees. From amongst the huddle of carts and scrawny beasts that eventually shambled into the manor’s courtyard, Corran had taken up a small girl on his hip and brought her to meet the _bramhir_. This was his sister and she was the next tribute child. Mariam thought she had never seen the master so grim, but his voice, for all it carried to every corner of the yard, was quiet. This was ended, to be no more than a memory in sad song…and as for the last of the curse, that in the end they would be reclaimed ‘to their sorrow’; they had left the graves of loved ones behind. That was sorrow enough.

Aragorn had absented himself from that homecoming, but he had come, months later, to see them settled into a new refuge. The orchard estate could not support so many additional mouths and in truth, the group found suspicion dogged their footsteps in the cold land that they could not yet call home. However, they had skills enough to support them until the walled garden bore fruit. Three of the old men had plied a trade fishing off the coast of Umbar. They would take over the ruined house by the sea and the King had gifted the group a small fishing boat. 

The walls of the shattered villa had been pulled down and the reclaimed stone used to repair the outbuildings and what had once been servants’ quarters. The walled garden was dug over, the paths cleared of rubbish, the raised beds reframed and Boromir, directing a party of stone masons from Gondor, had discovered a new gift. 

He was standing with old Simon in the archway of the garden wall, calling across to some workmen and gesticulating when the staff jerked in his hand and almost wrenched itself from his grasp. Startled, he cried out, but Simon had grinned, nodding his head furiously like a child’s toy, saying,

“Again, Lord Boromir, you try it again, sir.”

When Boromir had tried to lift the staff to point to the section of wall he wanted them to work on, once more it came alive in his hand, twisting and pulling him forward.

This time Simon cried, “Ha!” and waved across a workman with a spade.

“I’ve seen this before, sir,” he said, “Some men can find water no matter how deep it be hidden. That’s a good staff,” he added.

They had found three deep wells. Two were fouled, but the water would do well enough for the garden until it ran clear again. The third held good water; cold and sweet enough that a child could drink from it.

Aragorn watched Boromir closely as he directed the unpacking of boxes and bundles. His long fingers were busy with a stubborn knotted string that had defeated an old woman, who ducked her head as he smiled at her and then reached out to pat his hand gently. He had accepted the name they bestowed on him, but would allow none other to call him by it. Aragorn thought he also detected a little of the eagle in his Steward’s eye. Where Boromir had once calculated his options based solely on knowledge and sound judgement, careful as ever, now he sometimes appeared to conjure an idea from the air and could not, or would not, explain further. It reminded Aragorn a lot of Mithrandir at his most enigmatic.

The children were running about the walled garden playing a chasing game. They had all been down to the shore where Boromir had given them a swimming lesson and now were drying off hair that would be stiff with salt. These lessons greatly alarmed the old fishers for whom learning to swim was as good as an invitation to the sea to swallow them up, but the _bramhir_ would brook no interference. All of the little ones would learn, so that none might come to grief clambering about the jetty.

They were awaiting the arrival of Corran who had been despatched some days ago on an errand to the Prince Faramir. Boromir had been more than usually cryptic when Aragorn asked him about it, merely saying that he had ‘remembered the blue.’

The shouts as the travellers came into view, brought folk out from the buildings and the farthest ends of the garden. Boromir had sent Corran off with no more than six of a guard, but now the party was swollen, with each mounted rider leading two pack horses. As Boromir strode past him, a hand raised in greeting, Aragorn spotted the panniers with their precious cargo and his admiration for his Steward’s guile grew. Corran had slid from his horse to kneel at Boromir’s feet, who grasped the lad by the shoulders, hauled him up and embraced him, all the while smiling broadly.

Simon and his minions were clustered about the saplings, in their willow baskets, exclaiming over the silvery leaves of the little nut trees. A pack horse halted near Aragorn with panniers that seemed empty, a sacking cloth cast over the top, but when he lifted the damp stuff beneath there were small bronze-leaved plants in clay pots, sunk up to their rims in wet sandy earth.

“Those are the vines for the little peppery fruits,” said Boromir at his ear, leaning forward to drink in the heady scent rising up from the leaves.

Aragorn turned to him and raised one eyebrow, saying dryly,

“And how did you achieve this miracle, my Lord Steward? Will I return to Minas Tirith to find the treasury plundered, or have you signed away some treaty in Khand’s favour?” His voice softened and for his love alone, murmured,

“Or can they refuse you nothing?”

 “No, I dealt fairly with them, Sire.”

There was gentle amusement in Boromir’s voice, but an undercurrent of pride too.

“They have my word that the fruits will be for the use of my house and that I will not seek to damage their trade by grafting them, multiplying the trees. And,” he continued, “I remembered that almost above spices, their lords prize the flight of eagles, which they call ‘the blue’ for it is their connection to their gods.”

Boromir turned to where Corran and Simon were overseeing the unloading of the young trees.

“The lad earned his prize, this time, Aragorn. Meneldor brought him a pair of orphaned chicks from the mountains of Khand, hissing and spitting in the nest. He sat up at night to feed them, trained them when they would have torn the gloves from his hands and Faramir tells me the ambassador from Khand almost wept with joy at the thought that he would be the one to present his ruler with such a gift…in exchange for which, some bushes from his estate seemed a very reasonable request.”

“A fair exchange.”

“Simon will remain here for a season to see the plants established so, my King, we are free to return to Minas Tirith at your pleasure.”

“At my pleasure…”

Boromir reached into the basket to rub a leaf between his fingers. He lifted them to Aragorn’s nose and the rich, dark, spiced smell filled his nostrils, poured through the mask of his face until he was almost lightheaded. Boromir watched his eyelids flutter and then close for a moment and none stood near enough to hear Boromir’s voice deepen,

“What is your pleasure, captain?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been edited since its first posting at alex-quine.livejournal.com. It comes after 'Seedtime' and 'Roguing'.


End file.
